


It Starts with the Hat

by Flora (florahart)



Category: Toy Story Series (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-24
Updated: 2010-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-14 02:14:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/144238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/florahart/pseuds/Flora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Andy doesn't expect to see someone so familiar at college.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Starts with the Hat

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Semmi (semirose)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/semirose/gifts).



It's the hat, of course, that Andy notices first. The hat, and a pair of jeans on long slender legs over pointy-toed boots. The guy is walking across the quad perpendicular to Andy, and as they near one another, Andy finds himself trying to work out whether he actually knows him from somewhere, or if it's the superficial but fairly disarming resemblance to Woody that's making him think so.

The man nods at him and turns, and they fall into step together--and of _course_ he's seen him before, just, without the _hat_. They have a first-year seminar together. Literature of the American West. The guy has a fair amount to say. Andy does too, but most of the time he can't quite manage to say it before the topic turns.

Andy's first-term college course schedule turned out to be a bit of a jumble, through no real fault of his own. The guy that was supposed to teach his calculus class had some kind of family crisis at the last minute, and the university couldn't fill the slot (budget, economy, and recession are all words Andy became thoroughly tired of in the ensuing scramble to get into another section). Calculus is a pre-req for pretty much everything in the entire engineering major so it's not like he wants to just wait, but of _course_ the only open section was at the same time as one of his other classes, and things went downhill from there.

Still, none of his classes are at 8am (definitely a plus), and if he hadn't had any plans to fill an elective slot (ever) with a class in culinary anything, at least he's learning some things that will probably be useful after he leaves the dorms, right? A guy can only live on pizza and boxed macaroni for so long, his mom reminds him when he calls home to gripe.

Okay, so it's true; he's already well on his way to a hearty dislike of cheap chain-store delivery on the pizza front.

So he has the lit class and calc, a cooking class, and intro to geology. It's a good mix, anyway. And he's actually liking the lit class a lot better than he thinks he would have liked the history of jazz class it replaced.

"Somethin' in my teeth?" the guy asks Andy.

Andy blushes. He's looking again, staring, and he's busted. "No. I just--you remind me of someone."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Uh. A friend of mine. Woody."

"Woody. Kinda old-fashioned." The guy opens the door of Collins Hall and holds it for Andy, then follows him through.

Andy holds back a step so they're walking together again, though hell if he knows why. "Well, I mean, you just look, you know. Something about your jeans and boots and..." He shrugs. "I didn't say I thought you _were_ him."

"You were looking at my jeans and boots?" The guy cocks an eyebrow, but they're at the door of the classroom and Andy just sort of nods because he has no idea how to respond. The guy, who is now irretrievably 'Woody' in his head, is older than him by a few years, maybe back in school after some time away? And his curious look is sort of... hot.

Andy isn't sure what to do with that, except that he thinks of it several times at unexpected moments. He tries to set the whole topic aside and focus on his classwork, although he's unable to stop casting glances at 'Woody' in class, only to find that half the time, 'Woody' is looking back.

Maybe he's just pathetic, but since he has no idea how to proceed, he decides to ignore the problem.

This works all right (sort of) until the following Thursday night when he happens to look up as Woody strides toward him at a carrel in the library. He ducks back down again quickly, his ears heating, and stares at his notes for geology. They're reading about fossilization, about dinosaur remains and how archaeologists date them, and of course his head is in the toy box just enough to think of T-Rex.

He grins.

Pointy-toed boots stop next to him, and he's still grinning when he looks up, his gaze traveling over the worn spots at the knees, over a belt buckle no one not actually a cowboy in some kind of rodeo would wear and up to the long nose and clean-shaven chin.

"Something funny, now?"

Andy shakes his head. "Hi, ...Woody."

Woody chuckles and pulls out the chair just across the aisle. "You didn't tell me _your_ name, kid."

"Neither did you."

"Then I think I gotta call you..." Woody's eyes narrow, and they look at each other under the humming fluorescent light overhead. Woody shrugs and points up at it. "Buzz, I guess."

Andy gapes.

"What, did I get it right? I don't know any Buzzes, either, besides Aldrin."

"Yeah. I mean, no, but just, you..." Andy swallows, unaccountably too flustered to go on. Finally, he wets his lips with his tongue. "No, my name's Andy."

The guy shrugs and sits down. He's not studying; he sits sideways in the chair, long legs stretched toward Andy and crossed at the ankle. He's not wearing spurs, of course (who would wear spurs in the library?), but the leather has creases and worn spots. The boots are definitely ones someone has worn to work in. God, maybe he really is a bona fide cowboy who's taken up college as a hobby or something.

Andy tries to focus on geology for maybe thirty seconds while Woody watches him, then blurts, "You gonna tell me yours?"

"Woody'll do," Woody says. "Want to get out of here, Buzz? Go find someplace more interesting to be? Hang out?"

Andy nods before he really thinks it through, because what the hell, this guy is totally hitting on him (right? He is, right? Crap.), and he's calling him Buzz and he looks like Woody and he wonders if college is some sort of twisted fever dream.

Of course, none of this feels twisted or wrong at all. He likes the way his belly clenches when he thinks about Woody, and he really likes the way Woody's watching him now.

So he gets up and puts his books in his backpack and surreptitiously pinches himself (ow) and then drops his backpack on his foot, which is an accident and also (which lends credence to the not-a-dream theory) hurts. He curses (sort of. He thinks _fuck_ but says _crap_ , so it sort of half-counts), and picks it back up. Woody's still waiting for him, wide-brimmed hat on his head, little smile curling his lips.

Andy waves him ahead because he doesn't know where they're going.

And also because this means he might possibly see the bottoms of his boots. Just in case.

The library is on the edge of campus, all but surrounded by tall boxy buildings made up of dozens of square little student apartments, but it isn't until Andy's following Woody down some steps into one of the basements that it occurs to him that 1. he doesn't know the guy's name and 2. they're going back to his place. He freezes on the steps, on foot below the other, and spends ten seconds debating the merits of reconnaissance. But what would he do, go back up and get the address? Who does that? And besides, he doesn't actually feel worried. Just new.

He gets out his phone.

Woody's hit the bottom step and looks back up. "Okay?"

Andy holds up the phone. "Forgot I told my roommate I'd be home." He walks the rest of the way down, thumbing buttons to text Molly, just in case. Nothing weird, just that he met a guy in his Western Lit class who looks like Woody. She's used to getting weird texts from him, so he figures that's innocuous enough, and by the time Woody has the door unlocked, Andy's right behind him.

"Beer?" Woody asks as he tosses his keys on the table and hits the switch on a lamp.

Andy shakes his head. "No, thanks." He watches Woody lean forward over the couch, one hand on the back to reach the window shade, and wonders if really, he should say yes to the beer. He stays by the door.

"You can come in, you know. Sit down." Woody flops down on the couch, legs wide, arms flung out, and Andy drops his backpack on the floor in the little squire of linoleum at the door and sits down, too.

"So, what are we doing?" he asks.

Woody shrugs. "Up to you. But I don't think I was misinterpreting."

Andy shakes his head. "But that doesn't mean I know what the heck I'm doing."

Woody has green eyes, which Andy notices because they're watching him, and they're interested, and they're not laughing at him, and inexplicably the fact they aren't brown motivates him. He bites his lip for a second, then leans in and finds Woody is doing the same, his long arm coming around Andy's back and drawing him across.

In about three seconds, he's straddling Woody's lap, and kissing Woody isn't like any of the (admittedly fumbling) kisses he ever shared with a girl at a Friday night dance. It's rougher, and it's faster, and Andy feels desperate as he knocks off the hat with his forehead and tries to figure out what to do with his hands. He kisses until he's out of air--ha! And there he is, like Buzz again, and wow is that ever not a line of thought that's supposed to be happening--and then pulls away, panting and giggling at the same time.

"Still okay?"

Andy nods vigorously. "You don't have to keep asking," he says. "I mean, I would say. I mean, okay, maybe not say, but--I'd let you know."

"Good." Woody pulls him back down, his hands wandering, his lap shifting as he reaches around Andy to ditch his boots. Andy ignores the shifting and presses himself close as they squirm around into something approximating a horizontal state.

He thinks hears a muffled _reach for the sky_ as Woody pulls his shirt over his head, but he knows that's all in his head. And when Woody repositions them and slurps and slobbers his way down Andy's belly, _to infinity and beyond_ doesn't remotely begin to cover how it feels. He scrabbles at the arm of the couch as though it'll keep him grounded, and lets Woody open his jeans and tug then down enough to get at his cock.

There's no way he wants to stop, but even though he said he didn't need it, he appreciates the quick glance up. He appreciates that this Woody is as careful with him as the other one would be. If the other one were not a _toy_ what the hell is he thinking.

Doesn't matter. He whines as Woody breathes along the length of his cock and runs a thumbnail up over his balls, and Woody doesn't even complain about how fast Andy comes.

He's on his knees as soon as he can figure out how to make his body move again, pushing Woody's thighs open to get between his knees even though that makes it that much harder to get him out of his jeans. They both laugh, and they try again, and Andy flashes a grin and repeats that he doesn't know what the fuck he's doing, then gives it a shot.

Woody's fingers thread into Andy's hair, fingers offering subtle direction, and Andy finds the way his mouth stretches, the way Woody's cockhead hits the roof his mouth, intoxicating. He never wants this to stop, sore or otherwise, and he wants to figure out how to take more of him, take him deeper. He wants Woody as completely overcome as he was, and he sucks and slurps hard.

And then Woody's saying something, and Andy looks up, and the cock in his mouth jumps a little and in his surprise Andy can't quite manage to swallow immediately. He wants to apologize, but his mouth is full, and Woody doesn't exactly seem upset, so he just keeps sucking and licking until Woody slows down.

"What?" he asks, wiping his dripping mouth on his sleeve. "Was that, um." His voice is rough, his throat sore, and he has to bite his lip when it occurs to him he sounds like someone just fucked his mouth.

Woody draws him up next to him and turns him around so they both have (sort of) enough room. "Mmm-hmm," he says. His jeans are open against Andy's ass, and Andy can feel the sticky drips between then, but he doesn't care even a little, except that no amount of shimmying make it possible to relax without falling.

"I'm gonna fall off," he says after a minute.

Woody squeezes around him. "Yeah, this couch ain't big enough for the two of us, but at the moment you're my favorite deputy. I didn't want to get up."

Andy looks over his shoulder. "Did you just say--"

"Sorry. I usually try not to be so completely corny." Woody chuckles. "I'm just lazy. Gimme a minute."

"Kay." Andy stills for a minute, then kicks off his jeans the rest of the way and turns around, throwing a leg over Woody's thigh and nuzzling into his chest. "There. Better?"

"Much."

Andy wonders if they'll be awkward now in class, but he yawns, decides he doesn't care, and goes to sleep. He doesn't plan to be awkward, and if nothing else they'll be friends. Yes.


End file.
